


Empathy

by kiichu



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Ficlet, Gen, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6109795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiichu/pseuds/kiichu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Emerson's trial, Clarke reflects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empathy

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write Clarke being a little less... mean?

“Blood must _not_ have blood!”

The confused cries of the Grounders surrounded Clarke; she could hear every yell of protest, every furious snarl, and even the agonized pants from Emerson in front of her. It was hard to focus on one particular sound, as an orchestra of pain and anger seemed to amplify the chaos in the small chambers.

It took a few moments to wade through that loud discord before Clarke could meet Lexa’s eyes. She caught the flickers of admiration in the brown orbs staring her way - muddled under perplextion and caution, but still very visible. She gave a slight bob of her head, watching the fellow Commander nod in return. At least they could reach an agreement, though it still unsettled Clarke’s stomach a bit at the thought of letting Emerson go.

Still… she’d killed his _entire_ people. He was the _last_ one, left to regard his friends and family as ghosts forever wisping behind him. That alone was more than enough punishment, wasn’t it?

Though Clarke had jumped at the opportunity to execute Emerson when it was proposed, once she saw the man in person - bound by his neck, his gaze like that of a beaten animal ready to die - she couldn’t feel that contempt anymore. Her hatred had died down, mere embers compared to the raging fire it once was. She couldn’t say she liked the man; far from it, really, as she would not cry over his death, but she couldn’t wish him dead anymore.

Not when he was clearly wishing that for himself.

Sometimes, she was able to see those that had inhabited Mount Weather, just like she’d seen Finn after his death. The guilt trapped her, claws sunk in deep into her soul with a relentless force. It refused to be merciful, much like her own choices, reminding her that she could not afford to forget. And the hauntings weren’t like nightmares; no one was attacking her - they just stared, eyes wide and faces covered with radiation burns and blood.

And now Emerson was a _living_ reminder of her sins. It felt wrong to want to kill him merely based on the horrors that plagued her.

“W-what the hell is this?” A scratchy whisper brought her back to reality, and she found herself still planted in front of Emerson’s execution pole, his whole body trembling. She blinked, taking in every inch of his form as regret stabbed her like daggers. The man stared back at her with a haunted expression, his eyes glossed over with unshed tears and she watched his throat tighten as he swallowed hard.

Emerson snapped to life suddenly, lurching forward with a roar that would scare off a panther - ferocious and primal and _so very pained_. There was raw torment in his gaze and tone, and Clarke knew he lashed out so as not to weep.

And Clarke’s words to him - that his death would bring her no peace, that she’d be killing him for her own crimes - were true. They both knew that Clarke was responsible, but judging by Emerson’s surprise earlier, it didn’t seem as though he expected her to feel remorse.

Well, she reasoned, even a monster can show signs of regret. She hesitated on telling him this, though, not wanting to make herself anymore open for guilt. The lost look on his face was more than enough of a reminder of what she’d done.

 _She_ reduced the Mountain Men to one singular Mountain Man, and _she’d_ almost killed that man after declaring she wanted peace only days before.

Lexa spoke up next, her voice booming and silencing anyone who dared to try to utter a sound. Her words were filled with righteousness and confidence, a clear indication of who the true leader in the room was. Clarke gazed in awe at the girl, watching her gain the respect and acceptance of every Grounder in the room.

“This prisoner is banished from my lands,” she finally announced, and Clarke watched Emerson wilt further. “He will live, but he will live with the ghosts of his past - haunted until the end of his days… by the knowledge that he is the last of his kind.” Her head raised in a regal pose, expression firm and clear.

Clarke flashed an appreciative smile towards Lexa, if only for agreeing with her decision for mercy. Though Emerson would live with his demons, he would still _live_. The blood of the man wasn’t necessary, she realized, for peace - because when did bloodshed _ever_ lead to peace?

Her eyes ghosted over the prisoner once more, watching his mouth hang open like a gasping fish, trying to push words off his tongue but unable to. She pitied him, knowing that if she were the last of the Skaikru, she would have done the same as him. If the Grounders or Mountain Men had slaughtered the rest of her people, including those that didn’t have any part in the war… She had no doubt she’d want revenge just as he did.

Biting her lip, she leaned forward, watching him shrink away as though in fear. His head shook, breath hitching as though she was about to kill him after all.

So Emerson, the man who attacked her the moment their gazes locked when his prison box opened, was frightened of her now? It made her stomach churn; this man had once held such power over her, over the Skaikru and Grounders… vulnerability was not a good look for him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and she truly meant it. “I’m sorry for the Mountain. I’ll never be free of what I’ve done, and I can’t ever bring your loved ones back. But understand that we are working towards a society where that kind of thing will **_never_ ** happen again.”

He didn’t look like he was able to respond yet, eyes still gleaming with tears and pain and jaw opened in disbelief, but finally gave a slight nod. There was no need for words now on his end, she knew; the last they’d formally spoken, he’d cursed her, wishing her suffering to never stop. They both knew there was no need for him to officially damn her - she was already plagued by what she'd done.

“Lexa’s right, you know; their ghosts won’t stop following you, for as long as you live,” she murmured, catching the man’s anguished gaze once more. “But they’ll follow me, too.”


End file.
